


Gods in the Flesh

by melancholic (Ecstasy13)



Series: Impossible Gods [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Multi, POV Outsider, Polyamory, Post-Sburb/Sgrub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:11:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ecstasy13/pseuds/melancholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How could four gods be so completely normal?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods in the Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> So I don't like this as much as the fic I wrote about two weeks ago—maybe I fleshed out the outsider too much in this? maybe there isn't enough obvious romance?—but since I wrote it I should probably post it, right? Anyways, I don't know anything about undergrad theses, nor about art exhibitions.
> 
> Also, I'm planning to do a sort-of follow-up (who knows when it'll be done, though) because this ending seems a bit incomplete.

You're in the last year of your Religious Studies major, and you're basically fucked.

It's the sixth night in the row that you've spent in the library, looking for any sort of historical reference materials to supplement your thesis, and it's only just now hitting you that _there are none_ , because the religion you're writing your thesis paper on was only started _eight fucking years ago_. You're missing Will's 21st birthday tonight, goddammit, and all because your professor's the hardest grader on the face of the planet.

Admittedly, you'd probably have a better idea of what you're looking for if you hadn't missed class the day Sburbism was introduced, but _also admittedly_ , there's not really much you don't know about it. If you're being honest with yourself, it's basically the reason you became a no-good, stinking Theology major in the first place. Thanks, cult-like religion!

But now you're here, sitting on your ass at three a.m. in the middle of an empty library, and you're struck with the awesomeness of Sburbism's scope. Like, it has no historical documents, no basis in ancient society or sweeping reach like Christianity or Islam, but as of now it's the fifth most popular religion in the world, and it only keeps growing. Maybe it's just you, but that's fucking incredible.

You've been a member of the religion's following basically since day one, when you were out walking the streets at age fourteen with your short-lived boyfriend and you first-handedly saw the blaze of heavenly light that lit up the night skies, saw the four figures descend down to Earth like gods. Which, you guess, they are. It's just not every day that you see living, tangible proof that a religion is legitimate. 

But that night, the light had rained down like falling stars, and you completely turned your back on your deadbeat boyfriend to stare up in wonder at the brightly-clothed deities, whose presence seemed to fill the sky. Down the street, you saw a woman drop her bags of groceries and fall to her knees. A strong breeze whistled through the street and tore at your hair, carrying a whispered promise of destiny and holiness, and time stood still until the figures descended past your sight.

You clutch at the worn tome you always keep in your pocket, the text which had appeared on every doorstep the day after the arrival of the deities. It tells the story of four heroes-cum-gods, their creation of your universe, and it's really fucking frustrating that you have nothing to cite from before six years ago because this is the earliest text there was.

"Um, are you okay?" You startle at the unexpected question, knocking your head against one of the shelves. 

"Oh my gosh, I didn't mean to startle you! I just saw you sitting here and I mean it is the middle of the night—or morning, I guess?" Slowly, you turn to face the voice, and are honestly surprised to see another person there (ghosts must be real, you know, that much shit couldn't have happened in your creepy childhood home without some sort of supernatural influence). It's actually a guy, probably a year or two older than you, with rich skin and thick-framed glasses. He smiles at you like he's trying to figure out if you're, like, high or something.

"Oh, yeah, sorry," you say, rubbing the small bump forming on the top of your head. "I'm just contemplating my future as a Religious Studies drop-out." The guy frowns sympathetically.

"Becker?" You nod. "Yeah, my best friend double-majored English and Religious Studies. She said he's the worst."

"Tell me about it," you groan. "He says he won't give a passing grade if we don’t have any historical documentation to back up our religion, but I can't find _literally anything_."

"Well, what are you researching? I could probably help you, seeing as I work here." He takes a step forward and sticks out a hand. "I'm John, by the way."

"Thanks," you say, and let him pull you up. "And I'm doing Sburbism." He freezes nearly mid-step, and for a second you wonder if you said something wrong.

"John?"

"What? Haha, sorry, just spaced out for a moment there," he says awkwardly, and doesn't meet your eyes. "Um, we don't really have much on Sburbism, seeing as it's totally new and all, but we do have a couple folders of pretty old photos that you might find useful?" He says everything like a question, like he's trying his hardest to keep the conversation light.

"Sure," you say, because it's the best lead you've got, and you let him lead you through the shelves to a door marked 'STAFF ONLY'. He puts his index finger to his lips, mimes shushing you, and pushes through to an enormous room lined with filing cabinets.

"Technically, you're not supposed to be back here, but since they're just pictures and not, like, actual historical documents, it shouldn't really be a problem."

When you reach a cabinet that reads 'PHOTOGRAPHS—1940S—PACIFIC ISLANDS', he pulls out a thin manila folder full of pictures. They all capture some island ruins, you figure, and you don't recognize either them or the script which is carved into all its walls.

"So, these were ruins discovered in the 40s, I assume?" You say, and John nods. "So what's all this?" You point at the bizarre script.

"In the ruins there was this weird language, and for a long time it was undecipherable because no one could understand it," he says, and then waves a newer-looking picture in front of your face, "but then they found a sort of Rosetta Stone for English and this—see, the translation's in the back, they only managed to do it in the past few years."

You squint at the sheet of paper, which is written in handwriting that is— _horrifically_ —written in a hand even more complex and impossible to decipher than your own.

"— _and so shall come the day when lights rain from the skies, and the four heroes claim their place as gods in the universe they created_ —John, this is awesome, oh my Gods! How did you know about this?" Again, John shifts uncomfortably. The folder flaps in your hand like it's caught in an angry breeze, which is impossible, because you're inside.

"W-well, my friend, y'know, double major? Rose. She, uh, she was the one who actually translated it," he says, and you see the name Rose Lalonde written at the top of the sheet.

"Well, whoever it was, you literally saved my ass. Is it okay if I take pictures of these?"

***

"Hey John, what's up?" You call, not-really-only-kinda heeding the whisper-only rule that all libraries enforce. John turns in his seat behind the front desk, and for a second you wonder if you're totally rude because it looks like he was actually talking to someone, but then his tan face breaks out into one of the brightest smiles you've ever seen (it totally doesn't make you feel all mushy inside or anything).

"Hey, how are you?" He stands up as you get closer, and wow is he fit or what? Not too tall, but the semi-darkness of the library three weeks ago didn't do his figure justice. "Did you end up using those pictures in your thesis?"

"Yeah," you say, "Thank the Gods, Becker actually _liked_ it. You, John, are the reason I will be getting my degree." He laughs.

"Don't worry about it. Hey, Dave and I," he gestures over his shoulder to the lanky, all-over-pale man you thought you saw him talking to earlier, "were going to go grab coffee. D'you wanna come?"

"Sure. I mean, I've got nothing better to do, so." At this, John turns around to stare at Dave for a second, and it's almost like they're communicating telepathically (except that's _impossible_ ), until John lets out a sigh of what seems to be relief.

"Alright! There's a Starbucks right around the corner, but we both really like this place where our friend works, just a couple blocks over," he says, and holds open the library doors for you to pass through.

On the way to the coffee shop, which really is only a couple blocks away, right next to your first class of the day (!), you learn that John is probably the dorkiest person you've ever met, Dave doesn't talk much, and they're both grad students. John's getting his Masters in molecular biology although he tells you he's secretly been working on something called _ectobiology_ , whatever that is; Dave's working towards his Ph.D. in Musical Composition and Theory. Dave says he's going to drop out. John says he won't let him.

They talk like best friends, are comfortable around each other in a way that even you, a virtual stranger, can see, and you can't really tell what their relationship is. John walks with his arm slung over Dave's shoulders—to be honest, it looks a bit uncomfortable, given the height difference—and they're in sync in a way that you know doesn't come from being just friends.

You hope they are. Just friends, that is.

***

Next week sees you up bright and early, once again entirely regretting your decision to choose an eight a.m. class on a Monday morning. 

_One more week, just one more week_ , you tell yourself as you stumble out of your dorm. If there's only one thing you have to be grateful for, it's that you have only a two-minute walk from your dorm to the building where you have your first class. Just before you enter, though, you're arrested by the sight of a small coffee shop across the street.

When you went there with John and Dave, both had said something along thee lines of, " _It's the best coffee you'll ever taste!_ " Well, no exclamation point for Dave, but he'd still looked at least mildly excited behind his dark, unmovable shades. And it was amazing, even for an infrequent coffee drinker like you—sweet and just the right temperature, with little chocolate shavings on top of thick whipped cream.

Unable to resist the pull of a delicious 7:30 a.m. pick-me-up, you cross the street to the shop, where the smells of freshly-baked pastries and coffee grounds assaults your nose.

Behind the counter stands a dark-skinned woman, not the brunette who last week shook her head in response to John's unasked question and said, " _She's not here; you just missed her._ " She looks extremely similar to John, like they could be cousins, or even siblings. Is this Jade, the reason John and Dave like this place so much?

You step up to order, and she beams at you with an impressive overbite and a mouth full of shiny white teeth. Yup, must be Jade.

"Espresso, just a bit of milk, venti, please," you say, struggling to string words together to form a coherent sentence. Jade claps like the sun hadn't risen less than an hour ago and chirps, "Coming right up!"

When she hands you the steaming mug, so fast it's like she pulled it out of thin air ( _impossible_ ), you figure you've still got a good twenty minutes left until you have to get to class, so you take a seat at one of the tables against the window and shuffle through emails on your phone. A few ads, too many emails from porn companies—that's what you get the one time you leave your phone unlocked at a party—and one or two from your temple. This weekend is April 13th, so you've been helping to organize a dinner to celebrate the anniversary of Sburbism's birth. 

Vaguely, you hear a phone ring, and then Jade says, "Dave, you know you can't call me at work! No, I am not going to leave to bring you some coffee. Just ask John. He' s up, right?"

So John and Dave are together. Or, at least, they live together. That's not really conclusive evidence, right? You still have a chance. Probably?

"What? He's not? Jegus, you two are hopeless. Why is it whenever Rose is out of town you guys decide to give up being independent? Especially when I'm not there to get you guys up."

Rose? The translator? Did they all just live together or something? At least they're probably not a couple, you reason. Four people living together doesn't sound super romantic.

"Look, Dave, I know you just want to live normally, but Time is still on your side. You should at least be responsible enough to wake up John on your own. Yes, yes, I know. Coffee is your main man, I didn't forget." Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jade shake her head exasperatedly. "There's a pot brewing on the counter. Yeah, yeah, I'm the best, I know. Love you, too." She ends the call with a smile on her face.

Huh.

***

The day before graduation is sort of hectic, sort of boring. 

People are running around all over the place, and all classes have, but you're all done preparing for the April 13th commemoration dinner, and you're not really active in school, so you don't have much to do besides sit around and wait. Or rather, you would have nothing to do but sit around and wait if not for your roommate's suggestion to, "Come with me to this one book signing, pleeeeeeease, I have no one else to go with—"

The book shop is dreary, a little old and run-down, and in a part of town you don't normally visit, but it's surprisingly packed. Your roommate chooses a spot at almost the very front of a bay of chairs, and you figure that even if this crowd of hipsters and goths and balding sci-fi and horror fans aren't really your sort of people, at least it's better than sitting around your dorm. The author does a reading from her book, _The Complacency of the Learned_ , which strikes you as heavy-handed and sad, and then moves on to a Q&A session.

Something about the author (or about her books, about _something_ ) strikes you as familiar, even though you're sure you've never encountered such a terrifying woman before. She wears black lipstick, and has knitting needles sticking out of the waistband of her skirt, and Sburbism is probably the least judgmental religion out there but you're positive she'd have nothing to do with your religion at all until someone asks about college.

"Oh, I majored in English and Religious Studies. Completed my Doctorate last year, as well, and in doing so managed to incense my brother, Dave. He keeps saying he's going to drop out, you know," she says, leaning forward like she's spilling the world's biggest secret, "But I really just think he's mad I managed to finish before him." 

Then it hit you that this Rose, scary goth and author of melodramatic horror books, is the same Rose Lalonde who translated the runes that saved your ass and predicted the coming of your religion, and the same Rose who is needed to wake up John in the morning. Coincidence really is a bitch.

Your roommate seems a little confused when you suddenly enthusiastically line up with her when the Q&A is over, because you weren't half as excited when you first came here, but then she just reasons that this book is just too exciting and passes you one of the three books she brought for signing. The line doesn't move very quickly, because all those who are brave enough to actually talk with Rose are actually able to engage her in discussion, but when your roommate reaches her it's almost worth the wait to see her practically vibrating as she has Rose sign the two books, as well as a poster and some questionable fanart.

Then it's your turn, and Rose is still looking faintly bemused from your roommate when you say, "You're Rose Lalonde, right? The same Rose who translated the Sburbist prophecy?" Her hand stills in the middle of signing the book, and she peers up at you.

"Yes, I suppose I am," she responds, tone guarded. You beam.

"I knew it! Gods, you don't know how cool it is to meet you! You know, your work saved my hide writing my thesis."

"Religious Studies, I take it? Oh, were you the one John helped—"

"Yeah, yeah, thanks to him I managed to graduate!" Rose looks vaguely bewildered, so you force your voice a bit lower and take a deep breath. "Hey, in two days my temple's having an April 13th celebration, you should come!" Rose pales.

"I-I don't know if that's the most favorable course of action."

"It's not like you'd have to be religious or anything," you say, taking the finally-signed book from her. "It's just going to be a lot more fun if more people show up." She sighs.

"Look, I'm extremely sorry, but it's just not a good day for us. Any of us. However," she continues, handing you a business card, "Here's my number for if you really wish to discuss the prophecy at any greater length. John seems to like you, so I will gladly answer any questions you might have."

"Wow, thanks!" You say, and slip the card into the book. "It was really wonderful meeting you."

"Likewise," she says, and smiles ever-so-slightly. "And before you go, might I suggest an alternate route home for you and your friend?"

***

You don't know why you listen to her (star struck appreciation? Simple trust borne through a mutual friend?), but you take a different bus back to your dorm than you normally would have. It means walking an extra two blocks and making a change, but when you get back to your dorm and turn on the TV as a way to pass the time, you learn the bus you would've taken home was T-boned by a semi truck, and at least seven people were killed. 

( _Impossible_ )

***

The day of your graduation passes bright and clear, and you didn't know it was possible to smile so much for anything involving school, but the next day—the 13th—rolls in under heavy cloud cover with the threat of heavy rains. You double-check the forecast, and yup, it was predicted to be perfectly sunny, but of course you know that weathermen are godsforsaken liars. You're forced to move the dinner inside the temple.

It continues on as planned, but there's a crackle of tension in the air, because outside the thick walls of the temple you can hear furious gusts of wind screaming impossibly loud, and ozone spikes from every metal object. The night descends faster than entirely natural, dark shadows enveloping everything until the windows look out onto complete darkness. You smile through it all, despite the loud, frightened whispers of _heavenly signs_ and _the gods are angry_ and _daddy, what's happening?_

The leader of the temple takes one look outside and promptly states that no one should be driving home in this weather, no sir, we are going to wait out this gale. There's a sick bay in the temple, and you help to push beds together so that families and partners can stay together.

The night seems to last forever.

***

You keep going to Jade's coffee shop, despite having graduated and found an apartment basically 30 minutes away. It's just too good. John seems to spend all of his time there, when he's not working in the library, so you talk with him about ectobiology and comedy and world religions and never Sburbism. John always shies away from Sburbism and it makes you a little sad, sure, but even you're a little freaked out by your own religion because how often is it that any sentient, somewhat-human being is responsible for powers that can completely black out the world?

You think you're sort of becoming their friend, because by now Jade knows your order by heart and Rose tolerates your questions with more of a smile than a frown and even Dave seems to be a bit expressive around you. But you're still not one of them, not by a long shot.

Jade sits with her head on Dave's shoulder and John holds hands with Rose and they all share one side of a table, even though there shouldn't be enough space to fit all of them. When they think no one can see, John kisses Dave but also Jade and Rose walks with her hand in Dave's back pocket (even though she called him "brother" at the book signing). They share clothes and space and thoughts, and they're so interconnected that you don't want to be one of them because their whole relationship makes your head spin.

One day, when you're talking with John about the difference between so-bad-it's-good cinema and _actual_ good cinema and flat-out not good at all cinema, Dave slouches up against John's shoulder.

"Guess whose exhibition proposal was accepted?" He says into John's ear. 

"Seriously? Dave, that's awesome!" He cries, beaming. Dave looks smug—you guess he's finally managed to prove to a gallery that his art isn't as shitty as it seems. Or maybe it is as shitty as it seems, but just artfully?

"John, you can't be so loud inside a coffee shop, it's rude!" Jade says, coming over to loom over the two boys. Rose hangs off her shoulder, dragging her feet and giggling damningly.

"But Jaaaaade," John says, wrapping his arms around Dave's neck, "Dave's gonna be an art superstar!"

"They loved it so much they're gonna rush it into being just next week. Seein' as I've been ready for a while now." Jade blinks, and then drags Rose forward to join the group hug. You stumble out of their way.

Suddenly, a gust of wind slams the front door open, and a ray of golden light shines down on the giggling tangle of limbs.

(Impossible)

***

You decline going to the opening night of the exhibition, saying " _It's your time, guys._ " The next morning, the coffee shop is swamped with reporters, and you can't see a way through the crowd. Feeling thoroughly confused, you wander over to the library, which is also filled to the brim with flashing cameras and babbling voices. It's not until you pass a nearly-empty newspaper box that your blood truly runs cold.

 _GODS: IN THE FLESH?_ Beneath the accusing headline is a picture of John, kneeling above a supine Dave. Hands shaking, you pull some quarters from your pocket and take one of the few papers left, very deliberately ignoring the destroyed expression on John's face and the unnatural angle of Dave's head.

"Ramiken Crucible, one of Lower East Side's smaller art galleries, was expecting excitement when they rushed in the exhibition of Dave Strider, current graduate student at NYU, titled _Sweet Bro_. However, they were not expecting their new protégé to be one of the four legendary, living Gods that comprise Sburbism.

"Strider arrived at the event, a relatively small reception that featured low security and minimal press, with a total of four dates. Fellow NYU student John Egbert, as well as coffee-shop owner and part-time particle physicist Jade Harley, and acclaimed horror writer Rose Lalonde, accompanied Strider as he opened his first-ever gallery showing. All four are now suspected to be the four aforementioned deities.

"The opening night celebrations were coming to a close when an overhead light, estimated to weigh upwards of five hundred pounds, broke free of its cables and fell on Strider, who was crushed beneath its weight. Observers rushed to call for paramedics, while others made attempts to lift the light. Strider's dates reportedly 'rushed to his side' and then, incredibly, '[Harley] seemed overcome with this sort of, I don't know, rage, and she lifted this ridiculously heavy light clear off of [Strider],' one witness stated. She continued, 'You could tell he didn't have much long left, because his ribs were all caved in and it looked like his neck was broken. But then [Egbert] kneeled over [Strider] and there was a weird rush of pressure in the room, like we were in an airplane taking off, and then [Strider's] ribs just popped back into place. I don't know how he did it, it must have been some kind of miracle.'

"The four reportedly fled the scene soon after Lalonde shattered all of the gallery's lights—"

You stop, hands shaking madly. Gods? Them? Were you, all this time, assuming you were friends with the most powerful beings in the universe? You jump when a biker yells, "Get off the road!" and you realize you're standing stock still in the middle of the bike lane. You tuck the paper under your arm, tripping over the curb in your haste to move, and try—fail—to slow your shallow breathing.

How could four gods be so completely normal?


End file.
